Christopher Hopkins

With the dying
of the softest light,
the lamp light calls
to the north stars
as the caged bird
closed up
to the swallow-tailed will,

and somewhere
an hour or two in the light dust west,
colours
are compacting,
like a torch light pressed
hard against the pinkest skin.

The infra sounds
are climbing into bed
with us.
You rest our eyes
in your palm of solace,
as a candlelight vigil.
Skin is translucent
in the colour blue,
(here,
but not here).

The marble light reflection
in the chapel of our eyes,
doesn’t burn as bright
as burnt wings
or the jointed bones
of Orion’s frozen copse,
and like my body
powerless.
All of these heavenly bodies
are without spines,
without warmth.
There is no freedom in the cold,
like a star
in the glare
of the Sun’s accomplice,
that spoiling moon.
My love,
look at me.
Do not think
I do not love you.
It is the stars
that disappointed me,
not you.
It is this universe
that moves apart.
I am by your side.

As I kiss away
your salt traces,
it is then
I am lost in this depth.
Sleeping in the yellow house.

Christopher Hopkins is a Welsh poet living in Faversham, Kent. He has received an IPPY and two Pushcart Prize nomination and for his debut chapbook ‘Take Your Journeys Home’. His second chapbook ‘The Last Time We Saw Strangers’ was released in June and has been nominated for another Pushcart for its poem ‘Iodine’ and the chapbook itself nominated for the CLMP Firecracker Award. Christopher is widely published including poems in The Morning Star, London Grip, Riggwelter Press, Ghost City Review, The Cortland Review, Indianapolis Review, Mojave River Review, Ink Sweat & Tears and Rust + Moth.